


Quiet hours

by kylosbrickhousebody



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Feels, Boot Worship, Bootblacking, Canon-Typical Violence, Dominance, Dominant Armitage Hux, Dominant Ben Solo, Dominant Kylo Ren, Eventual Smut, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intimacy, Loneliness, Master & Servant, Master/Pet, Master/Servant, Master/Slave, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Slavery, Non-Sexual Submission, Poverty, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Service Kink, Service Submission, Slave Trade, Slavery, Slaves, Starvation, Submission, Submissive Character, Threats of Violence, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21742732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylosbrickhousebody/pseuds/kylosbrickhousebody
Summary: The answer is the same as it always is: slaves are for the enjoyment of the others. Commodities for consumption; to be seen and not heard; to work but to never be recognized.That’s life as a First Order slave. There’s no use trying to make sense where there is none, no use in wasting precious little calories on mental calculus where no solutions exist. Truthfully, she hardly thinks of Kylo Ren at all.
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/Original Character(s), Kylo Ren/Original Female Character(s), Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 67
Kudos: 218





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tagging as explicit because there's highly objectionable content already, and I haven't even written anything yet.

Rows and rows of the thinnest mats in the Galaxy line the floor, each perfectly parallel to the next. When an overseer wants to be a special kind of asshole (a lot of the time), they’ll insist one of the mats is out of line (a petty crime that warrants punishment.) Of course, none of the slaves own a measuring device—actually, none of the slaves own anything at all—so there’s never means to defend oneself. The slave always gets punished, disorderly mat or not. That’s just how it is.

In fairness, the overseers own very little, too. They come from a class of servants not far flung from the slave class. This is, naturally, why they’re overseers in the first place: no one of higher rank wants to deal with the lowly. There’s little compassion to be found amongst these not-so-different classes of people, though. The servants, only a single rung above the slaves, have long since gone mad with the meager scraps of power they’ve been given. There are mild ones, certainly—there are mild people everywhere—but most wield their crumbs of power with relative brutality. It’s kill-or-be-killed in the First Order. Unsurprisingly, most choose to kill.

The yelling starts at the same time every morning. Blind kicking follows, reserved not just for the slaves who don’t rise from “bed” immediately, but also for the plain sport of it. The hard rubber-metal combination of work boots make dull thuds in slaves’ sides, punctuated by the sharp cries of whoever was just kicked. This is how she wakes, every morning, curled up on one of the mats. The now-familiar rhythm of shrieking—punishing and being punished—fill the air and trigger something in her brain that jolts her body upright.

“Here.”

Her body shoves herself to unsteady feet before anyone can kick her in the ribs again. “Here,” she says, groggily, eyes not quite open, even though it’s not yet time for morning headcount.

The mats span to all the corners of the room, save for wide strips on the perimeter where the overseers roam at night. Now they step into the rectangles of free space between huddling slaves, kicking anyone still on the ground, shouting orders at the rest. At least three slaves are hauled away for further punishment. Back-talkers, probably. One slave is whipped on sight before being hauled away, her dark navy uniform torn down the back, dark red blood oozing from jagged wounds and muddling the frayed fibers that expose skin.

She looks down, then away. It’s not a sight she wants to see before the morning feeding.

“624872,” the head overseer—a particularly nasty fellow, the most self-righteous of the lot, which is probably why he was given the promotion in the first place—sneers down at the whipped slave.

“Sir.”

“You’re to report to Brigadier General Mooney’s unit for a formal reprimand and reconditioning.”

‘Reprimand’ means a beating. ‘Reconditioning’ means another, harder beating. Three reprimands, and you’re down the garbage chute.

Well, not really. Not likely, at least.

It’s probably more like a firing squad.

This time, there’s no pause in the slave’s response.

“Yes, sir.”

The words come out stiff, filled with anxiety, said with a sense of urgency. Sinewy legs push themselves up off the ground and onto feet. She trembles for a moment before two overseers grab onto her arms and drag her, roughly and not at all in lock-stop with each other, out of the room.

The slaves she passes look down, then away. No one else wants trouble.

By now, the cavernous, blank room is filled with a thousand standing slaves. Each does their best to stand completely still on their mat until their respective row is called for morning headcount and dispatch.

She still gazes down, eyes now trained on her own little rectangle of space. She’ll be given a different mat tonight, of course—no one wants the trouble of having to map specific mats to specific slaves. Instead, they all share. They’re given no time to shuffle to wherever their spot was the night before, and that would be hopeless, anyway: remembering on such little food intake is nearly impossible. The shared mats approach spreads disease quickly, but then slaves are expendable. No one gives a damn about “best interests” or “best practices.”

Slaves traded whispers of hope when Kylo Ren murdered Snoke and ascended to the helm of the First Order as its new Supreme Leader. Snoke was the driving force behind the inception and cruelty of the slave program; it was said that the collective suffering helped to somehow fuel the depth of his dark side powers. Ren never seemed to draw from the same sources as his master—or so the whispers said—and for fleeting days after the change in leadership, embers of hope glowed red in the hearts of the slave contingent.

Those embers suffocated soon enough.

Unlike Snoke, who frequently interceded to use slaves for torture and ‘research’ (probably also torture), it appeared that the new Supreme Leader never paid any thought to them at all. He, in equal measure, slowly faded from their collective consciousness. He was rarely seen after his ascendancy; the slaves working the most prestige sections of the _Supremacy_ report no interactions with him at all.

Not surprising, of course. Officers, let alone High Command, are tended to by the highest tier of servants.

The filth of the servant class are left to oversee the filthiest of all, the slaves, in a relatively siloed section of the First Order organizational chart. They’re off on their own branch, many leaves removed from the executive leadership of General Hux, who busies himself with warmongering and proselytizing (among more legitimate strategic planning.) For as much as anyone cares, Hux leads the First Order. He sends the marching orders, commands all the leaves that wither on the hierarchical tree beneath him.

The Supreme Leader might as well not appear on that chart at all. He does what he wants. No more, and no less. Certainly not less.

For those as lowly as the slave, it’s easy to forget that he exists at all. She certainly never thinks of him—only the cruelty that might trickle down from Hux, or from one of Hux’s minions. Incompetent people have a way of climbing the ranks of large organizations, none more so than in the First Order.

She dares not look elsewhere now, dares not do anything that might give an overseer an excuse to hurt her. She stares at her own feet, dirty and blistered, and savors the last moments of the day where she’ll have something that she can call hers.

“Delta Row, forward.”

Each slave in the row ushers themselves forward, striving to keep equal distance between the slave in front of them and the slave behind them. The males tense and move in rigid, marching step; they sleep in separate rooms with other male slaves. The females overextend their knees in their best attempts at pretty, lean strides. It doesn’t make any sense, the rigid code of conduct slaves are made to conform to. Who knows why it should matter how the cleaning women look while mopping the floors of the ship; why does anyone care how the men look while lifting heavy freighter containers? 

The answer is the same as it always is: slaves are for the enjoyment of the others. Commodities for consumption; to be seen and not heard; to work but to never be recognized.

_Clean the floors. Don’t get your filth on the tiles. You can’t have a change of clothes. You’re not worthy of washing._

_Don’t look at those above you. Look down, at the floor, where you belong. You don’t exist. Respond to every command._

_Here’s your vanishing rations of food. Display eagerness to serve. Be prompt. Have energy. Be invisible._

It’s a dizzying array of oxymorons, of conditions that could never be satisfied all at once.

Maybe that’s the point, though: to justify punishment at every turn, at any moment, for any reason.

There’s nothing a slave can do to be perfect: they’ll always be met with defeat.

Still, she tries, for she knows she’ll be beaten otherwise.

That’s life as a First Order slave. There’s no use trying to make sense where there is none, no use in wasting precious little calories on mental calculus where no solutions exist.

Slaves rise early in the morning cycle, well before any important classes of personnel. There’s cooking to be done to feed the lower-tiered servants so that the lower-tiered servants can serve the higher-tiered servants, who can serve officers, who can serve command, who can serve high command. Something like that. Anyone of lower rank must be prepared to serve anyone of higher rank at any time. Slaves, therefore, find themselves wildly overextended and shockingly relied upon.

“Formation, please.”

The _please_ is sarcasm. No one ever _asks_ a slave, they tell them.

Each slave folds into a straight line, shoulder pressed to shoulder, for assessment and morning check.

“259572 is here.”

A taskmasker ticks the number off his sheet as he walks down the line, checking the rest of the brand marks burnt into the necks of his charges.

“392052 is here. 912844 is here. 728476.”

There’s a brief pause, a heavy footstep, a breath.

“402685 is here.”

The hand, smaller than she’d expect from a man, lingers on the thin collar of her work dress for far longer than any strictly professional touch.

She thinks she feels a light squeeze between her shoulder blades.

A shiver wracks her body, though she manages to mostly suppress it.

“928471 is here,” the roll call continues, more boxes ticked, more lives easily reduced to workflow-trackable numbers.

There’s little art to how work groups are constructed. Mostly, it seems slaves are assigned to do whatever the taskmaster feels like having them do. Maybe it’s decided by the toss of some dice, or a throw at a dart board. Maybe it’s decided by something he pulls out of his ass (likely.) The women assigned to cook for the overseers often have no prior cooking experience, the crews assigned to work the import bays often too weak to lift heavy payloads. Those who would be best assigned to cleaning on their hands and knees are often kept standing as painters, or vice versa. And, sometimes, a taskmaster manages to make an assignment that makes sense.

She finds that she’s usually assigned to cleaning crews. Maybe she has a cleaning crew kind of face.

Either way, it’s preferable to suffering the heat of the kitchens, or the fatigue of manual labor. Mostly it’s just chemical burns and avoiding stomping feet in the bathrooms or praying that no one in their wing got diarrhea that day.

It’s the prolonged disrespect of the headcounts, the feedings, the washings that make slavery hard. The washing of floors is mostly okay. Floors are nicer than people. You can look floors in the eye.

The taskmaster starts down a new line, this time facing each of the numbers on his sheet.

“Report to Bay 3, Door Bravo-Lima-Tango.”

“You—” he looks down at his sheet, clears his throat. Each of the slaves has their eyes glued to the floor—at least, they do if they’re smart.

She wouldn’t know. She isn’t looking.

“You’re going to be in Kitchen 99.”

He moves down the line.

“Brig Echo, meal prep.”

“Kitchen 40.”

He clears his throat.

“Actually—kitchen 40. I heard the last crew got a nice beating or two. Perhaps you’ll enjoy cleaning their mess.”

Another step down the line. Rubber-metal boots step into view and come into focus.

“Hallway triple-Zulu. Main deck.”

That’s all he says, but she doesn’t need more detail.

She knows that hallway.

Everyone does.

It’s the Command Bridge of the ship.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really anticipate writing any non-con with Ren, but I've debated adding the tag as a complete warning that this fic will likely have some, somewhere. 
> 
> Anyway, consider this your Not Light and Fluffy warning.

No one dares say a word as they make the trek to the Bridge. The group of slaves seem to simultaneously huddle together and yet somehow maintain distance, each one conscious that they’re being watched. It’s said that leadership is paranoid of a coup. Any attempt—any _perceived_ attempt—to band together is quashed as soon as its noticed. Accordingly, most of the slaves keep to themselves. Still, there’s relative safety in numbers; if you nestle yourself between two others, they’re the ones likely to take the brunt of a beating.

Long, stark hallways pass by them on either side. They’re matte black, plain. Clinical. It’s as if the entire ship somehow forgot to decorate, leaving behind an austere husk of metal. Scattered electronics blink red here and there as they perform their respective functions.

_No Access. Restricted._

_Fuel Line Low._

Two overseers take up the front, leading the group; another two men round out the back, each armed with a large blaster. One slave lags behind near the back of the pack, limping on her right leg. She’s smacked with the barrel of a weapon soon enough and shoved forward, screamed at to keep moving.

The hairs on her nape stand on end. She, in turn, wipes her hands down the sides of the scratchy, fibrous work dress. It’s shapeless like the rest of the slave garb—not that that stops wandering eyes. It’s an open secret in the First Order that anything can be bought given enough money or power. While the better-kept servant class serve officers and high-ranking officials as “personal assistants”—legitimate and otherwise—anyone can keep a slave. Crude enlisted men have stopped by morning line-up before, made their way down the lines, scoped out male and female slaves alike. Some of the slaves almost seem to welcome it, attempt to impress. It’s a chance at something else, at breaking the monotonous cycle of their lives, even if the something else is just as awful.

She’s tempted, sometimes, if she’s being honest. Occasionally a man comes by and is gentle—relatively-speaking, at least. She knows men often enjoy the company of women; she's been told by now, this late into her life, that that interest isn't purely innocent. She doesn't ask much further, hasn't heard much beyond the whispers. Nevertheless, she craves the kind of approval received by whichever slave leaves with him. There’s a modicum of warmth given to you when you’re selected to _serve_. Instead of violent beatings and blistering disapproval, there is, maybe, a pat instead of a slap on the other end.

She always keeps her shoulders down, though; minds her business. The risk is too great; for every vaguely gentle one, there’s a thousand more looking to inflict punishment.

There are rumors of abuse at the hands of higher-ups. There are rumors, too—whispers, really—that it happens within the very highest echelons within the First Order. There are conspiracy theories of elaborate cover-ups, of disappeared slaves, of wide-reaching political permissiveness that lets those at the very top get away with anything.

She shuts her mouth, does as she’s told. Avoids eye contact, responds politely. Treads lightly.

The feel of the hallways shift nearly twenty minutes into their march. Bare, exposed metal gives way to shined, sleek black panels. Little rooms line one of the halls, each its own contained pod with a desk, chair, and HoloPad. Some rooms are larger, three or four chairs huddled around a small, polished table. There are overhead lights—sconces, really, made not just to light each room but to embellish it. Where there were threadbare couches in enlisted breakrooms, now there are executive meeting rooms with high-thread-count furnishings.

She nearly bumps into the slave in front of her by the time she’s noticed that the group has stopped moving. The overseer in front—it occurs to her that she’s never seen him before—scans his personnel card on one of the ubiquitous red-flashing key card readers.

A set of doors slide open, revealing a large, illuminated cargo elevator.

Her work group is herded in like cattle, backs slapped and shoved, the calves of legs kicked If not moving fast enough. She scurries inside, shoulders down, eyes trained on her feet.

The elevator doors close, trapping them inside, and soon it begins to ascend—up, up, up. Floors of the supermassive ship whir by, each punctuated with a soft beep at every level. Her work assignments are usually boring, simple. There’s only so much involved in cleaning a bathroom. This time, no one seems to know what might await them at their destination.

Just as soon as the air feels as it’s being sucked out of the room, just as soon as she begins to really panic, the lift comes to a stop. Sleek doors open; the overseer takes a confident step forward, leading the pack.

This time, no words are spoken as they’re ushered into the room. She imagines that the usual obscenities might disturb the air of importance that makes the oxygen here hard to breathe.

She moves, just as silently, into the large, open space. She steals glances of her surroundings only when others flank her on other side, obscuring the line of sight between the overseer and herself.

Where the rest of the ship is drab with cool, dark hues, the Bridge _shines_. Not a single detail seems out of place—everything intentional, as if someone brought in the angriest of interior decorators. The floors are polished to such a degree that they look slippery, only a few scuff marks from uniform boots lingering and out of place.

Two hexagons outline sections of workstations that are positioned into sunken sections of the floor. The lieutenants and major generals watch from above as field officers—high-ranking in their own right—click through intelligence screens, monitor positional data of the aircraft, do whatever else it is that they do.

Funny, really, how even in this space—already perched high above the rest of the Supremacy—those above seem obsessed with monitoring and micro-managing those down below.

Long streaks of deep red outline pathways on the floor in the shape of the First Order emblem. It’s the kind of color that would look beautiful as a knit cotton sweater, the color of a raspberry puree that might go with a warm dessert. There’s nothing cozy about the color used in this context, though; while the rest of the ship merely suggests it, the Bridge shouts it with pride: “We do evil, and we know it. We mean to.”

No one seems to react to their presence, and frankly she’s grateful for it: it is _readily_ apparent that this is not a place where slaves belong. They’re lined up against one of the walls, backs pressed against cold sheet metal. One of the overseers begins to distribute cleaning items—a belt for each of them, lined with hooks for rags and a spray bottle, which clicks into place. Some are given small trash bins with rolling wheels, told to keep out the way but nevertheless follow behind the others, disposing of any wet towels or other garbage.

For her part, one of many waiting black buckets is shoved into her hands. A soapy-looking substance swirls inside. She suppresses a cough—its chemical fumes will give her a headache soon enough.

“You five,” one of the overseers begins, referring to her and four other women, “Scrub the floors. I expect to see every scuff mark gone, every speck of dirt wiped away.”

She surveys the floor, already pristinely polished and waxed. It seems there’s little to do.

“Understand?”

The overseer who was speaking takes a step forwards her, somehow seeming to notice the insubordination of her thoughts.

“Do I make myself clear?”

She swallows, measured, eyes downcast on his shoes where protocol dictates that she looks. Smooth leather, a bit grainy, but not bad. He’s higher-ranking than most of the servant class.

“Yes, sir,” she responds, obediently. Quietly.

There’s a puff of air on the side of her neck; he leans in close, intimidating, crowding her space. The man takes a long breath, leaning in so his mouth hovers over her ear.

The hot breath from his mouth sends a nauseous shiver down her spine.

“Will you do that for me, little slave?”

She tenses all the muscles in her body, strains to keep herself from physically shivering from dread and disgust.

She takes a short breath, quells her fears; she’s had practice.

“Yes, sir,” she manages to murmur back, every bit the obedient slave, adding a lilt to her voice that suggests nothing out of the ordinary.

Somewhere above, the man chuckles, dripping condescension. He steps away.

“Good.”

She hates how part of her is so desperate for any pungent shred of praise.

* * *

It’s not terrible, down on her hands and knees, mopping the floor. There are worse jobs, even if this one is wildly unnecessary. Her work, at least, has the side effect of distracting her from the banality of a slave’s life. She can zone out, lean into the rhythmic wiping of the floor, take at least a tiny of ownership in her task. It feels good to own something.

She examines her wash rag after the first few minutes of furious scrubbing.

Nothing.

She turns it over in her hands, spreading out the edges. 

Nothing at all.

The floors are cleaner than the disposable plates she eats from.

It’s not uncommon, she admits, dipping her washrag back into the noxious chemical in the bucket, for slave labor to be sloppily allocated. Slaves are often told to perform labor simply so someone above them can exert control, exercise some power. Still, though, it seems odd to be needlessly called to the Bridge. Of all the places on the ship, this seems like the one that should be the most hostile to slave presence.

Having called them here, for seemingly unnecessary work?

She nearly shrugs before catching herself.

When her cloth is fully saturated again, she pinches it gingerly between two fingers and drags it back out of the bucket. The cleaning solution they’re using is totally unfamiliar—probably something specialized for the wax covering the floors. She runs a finger over the ground, briefly, when no one seems to be paying close attention

Hm. Probably some kind of marine polyurethane.

Her hand fans over the rag again; she winces in pain as she continues the circular motions she makes over the floors, buffing them to perfection, wiping clean any tiny scuff marks she finds. The harshness of the chemical solution starts to burn into her hand, reddening the softer skin of her palms.

The overseers didn’t offer gloves—they never do, not unless the slaves are cleaning up some kind of biologic hazard—so she doesn’t ask. She knows what happens to slaves who make demands.

She swears she feels the weight of the male overseer’s gaze on her back sometimes. It makes her hairs prick up, makes her tingle in the most uncomfortable of ways, but she knits her brows together and presses on. Best to ignore everyone.

She zones out again, just like this, as her hands gradually grow numb from the effort. She crawls forward on her knees, body pressed against the perimeter of the room as much as possible as to avoid finding herself in anyone’s path.

She finds herself like this, on her hands and knees, pulling down a skirt which refuses to stop riding up, when she hears a familiar voice. A higher, shrill, pretentious voice.

Her eyes go wide; her hands fall away from the rough fibers of her uniform and back to the chemical, back to scrubbing furiously—distractedly—at the floor.

“Supreme Leader,” General Hux says, moving closer, simultaneously sounding stern and desperate, “Sackler Farbenindustrie will be docking in only a few hours.”

The sound of leather boots on the floor—higher quality and heavier than anyone else’s—squeak into earshot. Two sets thump against the ground, one noticeably heavier than the other, stride length longer.

She doesn’t dare lift her head, doesn’t dare glance at the reactions of the other slaves. She scrubs the floor beneath her furiously, first with one hand and then, when it grows tired and painful and cramped, with her other. _Anything_ to appear deeply consumed by her work. Anything to remain invisible, to avoid undue attention.

Her heart starts to pump out of rhythm when a deep, static voice speaks from nearby.

“I trust you can take care of closing on the deal by yourself, General Hux.”

More heavy thumping. The footsteps come closer, the pair of men stopping when the squeakier set of shoes moves to cut the other off.

“ _Supreme Leader_ —Chairman Schmitz will want to discuss with you before closing on our acquisition of Substance 78.”

The mechanical voice speaks again, mildly broken through by static whirring. “You seem to have forgotten that I prefer our own labs manufacture the substance.”

“We don’t yet have the supply chain in place, Ren. Sackler is crucial in securing it.”

“I have no interest in these politics. Take care of the matter yourself.”

There’s the sound of rustling, like one man has pushed past the other, and heavier footsteps that come closer, closer, closer. Black leather boots stop only paces away when General Hux catches up.

She barely breathes but for the little puffs she allows herself between wiping motions. She doesn’t stop cleaning, doesn’t want to attract any suspicion that she’s eavesdropping—even though the entire Bridge is.

She’d trade anything to become truly invisible.

“It’s in your own best interest, Ren.”

No response comes.

She doesn’t look up, doesn’t try to steal any glances to see what’s happening. She wants no part of this at all, not even incidental. If she could sink into the floor and accept an entropic death, she’d do it.

“So,” Hux says, crisply, a long moment later. “You’ll need freshen up.” It appears the General has won this battle, if not the war. “I trust you understand that we can't have you tracking Jabiim mud into the board room.”

Again, there’s no response, and she begins to think after long moments pass that the matter has been resolved—that they’re leaving the Bridge in the hands of the usual tyrants that run it.

They don’t budge, though.

She swipes the floor in tight circles, rag too dry to achieve much shine. She doesn’t move to dip it back into the water—the splash would surely attract attention.

“Fine.”

A single word, spoken ages later, tense and clipped. Static again. Cold. Annoyed.

“Excellent,” says Hux from somewhere above and to the right of her shaking hands. His response is measured, but nevertheless dripping with just as much disdain. “You—can you polish boots?”

She carries on with her little circles, eyes trained on the little streaks of bubbles left behind before they vanish a moment later. She grows jealous of them, wishes that she, too, could disappear so easily.

“You,” Hux repeats, more gruffly this time. It only occurs to her when squeaky boots appear in her line of direct sight, underneath her hunched body, and pasty white hands move to grip her by the hair.

The General tugs. Hard.

She finds her shocked, unwilling eyes staring into grey ones, forced to by the follicles of hair screaming on the top of her head.

 _Oh_ , she mouths unconsciously.

Hux is speaking to _her_.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a foot fetish, but maybe not not a foot fetish? Maybe just a heavy dash of service submission.
> 
> ETA: Apparently this is called boot blacking! And the person doing it is a boot blacker. The More You Know(TM).

The hand in her hair fists, grabbing at roots, and wrenches— _hard_.

Tears form in the corners of her eyes.

“Can. You. Shine. Shoes.”

The General rests between each word, letting silence punctuate them as if she’s a child first learning to speak.

She blinks, fighting the urge to shake her head until it clears again.

This is a dream—it must be. She’s died on her resting mat, finally succumbed to starvation and exhaustion. This is the mental death rattle, the inexplicable nightmare of a brain whose synapses are firing for the final time.

There’s no other plausible explanation. She’s sure of it.

“Christ. Mitaka, bring me your inspection kit. And you,” he yanks, again, this time managing to pull out hairs, root ends intact. She sucks in a sharp breath to accommodate the pain. “You are useless. In fact,” he begins dangerously, “you’re stupid, aren’t you?”

Bile rises in her throat, eyes still wild with franticness.

“…Sir?”

“Are you stupid?”

“I—” her eyebrows jump, then knit together, straining to find the right answer from the addled matter between her temples. “No, sir?”

Wrong answer.

His free hand rises, ungloved, and slaps her across the face. He holds her in place with the other, forces her to take the brunt of the damage.

She shivers, jolted back to reality by the sharp sting. This is _real_.

A tear slips down her cheek, heat searing the newly-minted welt on her cheek.

“Tell me what you are.”

Her lips part, tongue moves to form the words, but she never gets to finish.

The static voice, now bored, interrupts.

“I don’t have time for this pathetic display. I have a flight plan to file.”

The heavier set of boots side-step the other and begin to trail down the hall with confident steps.

“ _Ren_ —”

Hux releases his hold on her. She’s an afterthought now, a mere sheep caught between a battle of two wolves. She slides to the floor, one of her cheeks coming to rest against the cool wax there.

It almost feels nice on her skin.

Kylo Ren rounds on the General.

“ _Supreme Leader_ ,” he corrects, seething.

Hux clears his throat. “Sir. Of course, sir.” He straightens up, “Supreme Leader, I—”

Mitaka returns just then. He thrusts a bound leather bag into his General’s hands, as careless as you might expect from a meek lieutenant.

“I— _yes—thank you_ —” Hux continues, “ _Supreme Leader_ , surely you understand the disrespect of attending such a negotiation with dirt caked onto your boots.”

“This is my Empire.” The more powerful of the men says it simply: its fact, and so he says it as such. “I’ll do as I see fit.”

“Sir—” Hux scurries alongside the other man, forced to jog to keep up.

She watches, vaguely, eyes lolling about in her head as her mind struggles to process the surreal scene before her.

“Yes, sir. Of course, they should respect your stature. But businesspeople can be so… simple.”

Kylo Ren pauses, turns. His squares off his shoulders.

Tall.

Proud.

A long silence passes between the two men.

“ _Fine_ ,” he utters, sharply, nearly petulant.

Then, before she can process it, he turns his head. The chromium-lined void where eyes should be tilts to look at her directly. His gaze, invisible as it is, bores a hole in her.

Her stomach twists. She looks down, then away—instinct.

“Come.”

That’s all that’s said. It’s all that needs to be said.

Ren turns on his heel and storms down the hall leading away from the Bridge.

It takes several long moments for her brain to catch up.

General Hux doubles back, triumph written in his features. He stops above the figure of her crumpled body. With a single, satisfied smirk, his shin rears back.

A hard kick lands stiffly between her ribs.

“Up. _Up!_ I’m sure you’ll enjoy cleaning his filth.”

She’s can’t decide, as she scrambles to her feet, whose presence she would rather suffer.

Hux, she thinks, is far more obnoxious—but a predictable brand of obnoxious.

Kylo Ren?

He’s an unknown quantity. An unknown quantity with the bad habit of killing those who cross him.

At least Hux mostly likes to feel important.

Ren _is_ important.

She accepts the kit shoved into her chest, curls the fingers of her shaking hands around it. Then she runs after him, decorum be damned. There’s no training in the world enough to prepare you for unexpected encounters with the Supreme Leader.

As far as she knows, slaves are never even supposed to encounter High Command, let alone the two highest-ranking commanders. Someone, somewhere along the line, fucked up royally.

The access-restricted doors guarding the Bridge narrowly avoid hitting her as she slips out of the area and into another sleek executive hallway. Thick, billowing black robes up ahead serve as her north star, guiding her to their destination.

She follows, urgently, not wanting to compound whatever wrath she already faces, to a room located off an adjacent hall.

A polished metal desk sits in the middle of the room, a single chair positioned in front. It, like the desk, is brushed metal, grey and sickly. Nothing like the plush furniture she’d seen in so many of the other Command rooms.

A HoloPad rests on a quadrant of the desk; the white prism of a hologram projector centered beyond it.

Kylo Ren sweeps his robes to one side, bends his too-large frame with startling grace, and takes his seat with the presence of a man comfortable with being in charge.

He clicks distractedly through screens on the pad. Then, a moment later, large, gloved fingers hammer a passcode into a comically small keyboard.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t pay her any other attention. She’s as good as the filth that lines his boots, so it hardly surprises her.

“I—no, sir, I just. I wouldn’t want to—to do anything I’m not supposed to.”

Ren sits back in his chair. The cold façade of his helmet turns, slowly, menacingly, to face her.

“How very illuminating. Must I guide you step-by-step?”

Her cheeks burn, her right one still sore from being hit. “No, sir, I—”

“First,” he begins, ignoring her entirely, “you’ll kneel, like a slave is meant to.”

“I—” She sinks to her knees where she is. “ _Of course_ —”

He huffs through his nose—or at least she imagines he must have, given the mirthful noise that originates from somewhere underneath the helmet.

“I hardly expect that you can complete your task from the doorway.”

“No, sir, of course not,” she moves to push herself back up onto her feet so she can make her way to him, but—

“No.”

She freezes in place.

“Sir?”

“Crawl to me.”

“I—”

“I said, _crawl_.”

There’s nothing to argue; his tone sucks the air out of her lungs, leaves nothing behind for interpretation.

She swallows down a dry throat, loops a forefinger into the binding around the kit. Then she moves, eyes affixed to the ground, putting one shaking arm forward, then the next.

She stops only when she draws nearer to him, when she finds the very end of the thick cloak that wraps around his shoulders.

It looks heavy. Warm. In another life, she might have wanted to reach out, to cover herself with it and draw it tight around her.

Now, though, it feels as if the weighted material might somehow leap out and smother her.

She moves slowly, cautiously, does her best to avoid causing offense. She leans back so she kneels, ass on her heels just as taught by the overseers.

She stares at the space between her knees.

“Mhm. Good.” There’s typing again, now from somewhere above her. “Now that you’ve been reminded of your place, you would do well to remember it.”

Her response tumbles from her lips without pause.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll have succeeded if you manage to make me forget that you’re here. Begin.”

That’s it—all he says. She swallows again, one hand moving to grasp at a rag on her belt. She wiggles it free from its loop, works the inspection kit open with the other hand. She nudges a finger under its bindings, working gently to undo the knot so that fragile leather doesn’t crease.

General Hux imposes a strict set of inspection criteria for the military arm of the First Order—for all personnel, really, given that it’s technically a military state.

Officers are expected to present themselves without a hair out of place—shoes shined so that they’re practically reflective, slacks pressed stiff.

She unfurls the leather pouch on the ground, contents rattling slightly as she lays them out.

Welt brush, shine brush, polish, conditioner.

_Pomade. Where is the pomade?_

No pomade.

And, of course, the most major oversight: no water.

It’s shocking, really, for a senior officer’s inspection kit to be lacking. Perhaps, she realizes, this is intentional.

“Sir—” she sucks in a quick breath, “ _theresnopomade_.” Another quick breath of air forces her lungs to expand, then compress. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

The typing noises cease.

The man reclines, slowly, torturously, one metal bar of the chair creaking with his weight.

She keeps her eyes downcast, doesn’t dare steal a glance. She doesn’t need to; she feels the oppressive weight of his gaze the instant it falls on her.

“I’m sorry.” She finds that she can only repeat it.

Nothing. No response.

She begins again, tentatively. “General Hux—”

“—is an idiot.”

Her lips part, then close again. There’s no good way to respond. No proper answer at all.

“I—”

“Should never depend on anyone else to do your job,” he finishes for her.

“You’re right—”

“Yes.”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she wrings her hands, once, speaking more to herself than to him, “I’ll need water, at least.”

“And you expect _me_ to fetch that?”

“No! No, no, no. No, of course not. No. I’ll—I’ll fetch it. Of course. I—where is the nearest storage closet?”

“I have,” he begins, slowly, letting the words hang before dropping them on her, “not the slightest clue.”

He pauses only for another second. Then he sits straight again, attention turned back away from her.

She pushes herself to her legs quickly and angles, delicately, for the door. She wouldn’t want him to think she’s running from him—wouldn’t want the animal to give chase, wouldn’t want to give a predator reason to hunt its prey.

“I’ll—I’ll have some shortly—”

She rounds the corner, then, not brave enough to wait for a reaction. It is, as he’s pointed out, very much her job to come prepared. She’s grateful—and surprised—that she wasn’t slapped outright for the transgression.

She finds a small washroom around the corner. The only containers it offers up are a few crystalline drinking glasses, but it’ll have to do. She snatches two, prays that briefly borrowing them is better than returning empty-handed.

She hurtles back to the room where he waits as fast as she can move without the cups sloshing over.

Kylo Ren doesn’t react when she steps through the doorway, doesn’t acknowledge her when she closes the door lightly behind her.

He doesn’t even pay her any attention when she kneels again, when she sets the glasses aside.

She clears her throat, but only lightly. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, again, “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about the missing pomade.”

No response from above.

At least, not for a long moment.

“I’m sure you’ll make do.”

His voice is flat, save for the static interference that characterizes it. No indication of what he means.

A twinge of confusing emotion— _pride?_ —creeps through her. She doesn’t pause long enough to guess further at his meaning, nor to examine her feelings. 

He, for his part, goes back to ignoring her—a small but luxurious blessing. She far prefers to feel invisible. She’s used to it.

She sets to work, first ripping a thin shred from a clean rag. She dips the rest of the cloth in one of the cups of water.

Wherever he’d been—Jabiim, was it? She knows very little about the planet—he hadn’t taken much care to avoid muddy terrain. She imagines that he probably doesn’t take care to avoid much of anything that he doesn’t already want to.

They’re beautiful boots, she finds, made with a craftmanship that even she can appreciate. Ridges line either side in stripes that radiate from the central swath of leather that forms the toebox. Buckles wrap around the back of his shoes, adjustable, molding around his ankles to lend support.

It’s difficult to clean the dirt from all the sunken lines, but she manages to with gentle, repeated swipes of the cloth, combined with the sharp edges of her nails.

She’s careful not to scuff the material, of course; she only means to restore them, not cause any further harm. They’re already well-worn, beaten down. The creases in the soft expanse of leather tell her so.

She leans back onto her heels after a long while, stretching a back that aches. She cracks her neck to one side, then the other. Then she picks up the welt brush, uses it to dust away the last of the grime before winding the thin strip of torn-off rag around two of her fingers.

It’s then, as she dips them into the viscous golden fluid of conditioner, that she notices: he’s watching.

The muscles in her shoulders tense immediately; the illusion of invisibility evaporates.

“Go on.”

She jumps when he speaks.

“Sorry. Sorry, I—”

He cuts her off.

“You’re doing a truly terrible job of staying quiet.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it, suspended in a state that seemingly demands apology and yet entirely prohibits one. It’s strange, too: she can’t truly tell, but she doesn’t detect the anger from before in his voice. Its timbre is different now. Fuller. It suggests something different.

She only nods in obedient agreement, unquestioning, and again hunches her shoulders.

She massages the oil into the leather of his boots, careful not to press too hard into the flesh of the owner.

She’s just restoring the wear-lines in the leather—that’s all. She repeats that, over and over, like a silent prayer.

That’s all.

Nothing to see here.

He continues staring, though: she can feel it. It becomes heavier over time as her inner panic rises. It makes her hands twitch with nervousness.

She caps the conditioner, trading it out for the round tin of black wax. She applies some, lightly, to the widest section of unembellished leather at the toe.

“I’m very sorry,” she starts, softly, testing the waters of her latest attempt at speaking out of turn, “there’s only so much color I can rejuvenate without the pomade. I’m just doing a wax polish now.” Comparatively small fingers trace the faded patches on the innermost sections of the boots, just between his feet where his arches would be.

Are—where his arches _are_.

“I can see that.”

Again, the voice is different than she expects. Less mocking than before. Something else instead.

She hums softly, compliantly, in assent.

She falls quiet for the next passing minutes, distributing the wax across the material in equal measure, buffing it out so it doesn’t clump.

She takes a breath before daring to speak again.

“Do you want them shined?”

He, too, seems to hum in turn. The man moves forward a bit, leans in to survey her handiwork.

She steals a glance: helmet angled down, assessing her work. No longer staring at her.

She can feel the difference. The relief is immediate—even if he’s displeased with her work thus far, the possibility somehow feels less uncomfortable than the feeling of his eyes on her.

There’s something wrong about the Supreme Leader looking at a slave. Slaves are meant to be invisible, meant to blend in and carry out their work silently, obediently. They’re meant to make the underpinnings of everything run without receiving any credit at all for it.

It is, after all this time, what she’s become accustomed to. That order of things feels natural to her now.

“Not particularly.”

The words snap her out of the contemplative daze.

“Sorry?”

Another verbal error. Shouldn’t be allowed—

“Not shiny.”

She pauses, again, drawing in another breath.

“There’s only one way I know of to achieve a matte finish without a pomade, if that’s what you want. Sir.”

“It is.”

She thinks for a long moment; her heart begins to flutter and beat harder within the cage of her chest.

“Just know that this isn’t meant as disrespect, then, sir.”

No answer comes.

She didn’t expect one.

He waits, watching, limbs long with lean muscle that rest in relaxed possession of the chair. He occupies space as if he owns it—which he does. All of it.

He stays like that, perfectly comfortable, as she bends slightly.

Her lips part. Then her tongue works to force out the spit that’s collected within.

A long string of saliva forms from her lips to his boots. It hangs there, just for a moment, before she quickly swipes the one end from her mouth.

_Obscene._

She’s not sure if her conscious mind supplied the word or if some inner voice is expressing its disapproval.

_So quick to debase yourself. Is it so easy for you?_

She shudders, ignoring her own judgmental voice, using her own spit to buff the shine out of the wax, quickly, arms tight again with renewed anxiety. It takes only a few passes on either shoe to remove the sheen of varnish that would be better suited to the anal-retentive General.

He seems to agree, stands after several long moments of assessment. He’s taller than she remembers—much taller, she thinks, finding herself staring up at him, lips apart and slightly slack-jawed as he moves to exit.

She’s not sure what’s come over herself as he moves somewhere in her periphery, as she hears the clink of something on the metal table.

And then Kylo Ren is gone, and the room feels cold again.

She shivers, entirely unsure of what’s come over her, then pushes herself to stand on mildly unsteady legs.

There, on the table, glitters a single golden piece.

A credit.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, this fic may turn out a bit slow-burn-y? It will eventually involve sex things. I am considering downgrading the rating in the mean time since there will probably be a lot of story and Other Exciting Things(TM) in the meanwhile. Not sure what the right call here is. Drop your opinions in the comments I guess.

She stares at it for a long time—longer than she truly has to spend given that she’s already been separated from her work group. Her taskmaster is probably terribly confused; she’ll probably already face a beating when she goes back.

Still, the wonder of it holds her in place.

A credit.

Kylo Ren gave her a credit?

It’s there, unmistakable, on the table.

She blinks once, twice, three times, pressing her eyes closed tighter with repetition.

It just seems unbelievable. She’s never seen a real credit up close before.

She stares dumbly for a moment longer before realizing she should probably return it to him.

Having a credit on her person—well, it’s likely not even legal. Slaves can’t own anything, let alone carry currency. Possessing a credit is probably some sort of high crime.

She runs over to the doorway, peeks her head out into the austere hallways.

“Sir?”

She looks left; right.

There’s no one there.

Little legs carry her to one end of the hallway, where it splits into two leading to and away from the Bridge.

“Sir?”

Nothing. No response, no one in sight.

She runs to the other end, a little panicked now, whipping her head from side to side to try to catch a glimpse of him—the coattails of his cape, maybe, turning a corner somewhere in the distance.

Again: nothing.

She bites a lip and hurries back into the small room where he once sat.

It’s still there, still on the table where he’d left it.

She peers back at the doorway before she shoves it into the scratchy lining of one of her frock’s pockets.

Then she scurries out the door, into the foyer, down the passageways leading back to the Bridge. It’s critical that she re-join her group. If she doesn’t, she won’t be accounted for in the next check, and that means a guaranteed beating. Even worse, losing track of one’s group means she’ll likely miss both the next feeding and her next refresher break.

She nearly runs into one of the huge blaster doors guarding the entrance to the Bridge.

She bows her head at two of the elite squadron Stormtroopers stationed as guards.

“Could you please—erm—could you please let me in? My group was assigned to cleaning duties here, and—”

“Scram, filth.”

“I— _yes, sir, I understand_ —but please, I need to rejoin my group, and—”

“I said,” one of the troopers says, shoving the butt of his blaster into her ribs, “ _scram._ ”

“Yes—yes, sir. Yes—”

She turns, quickly, and hurries down the hallway.

The cold sheet metal venting on the floor digs into her bare feet as she scurries out of the Stormtroopers’ line-of-sight.

They’re not going to let her in, and she certainly isn’t going to get away with tailgating an authorized person into the Bridge. She looked terribly out of place there— _well, all the slaves did_ —and she wouldn’t even pass for a servant. The raggedy, unwashed standard issue of the slave uniform see to that all on their own.

She pauses to catch her breath in one of the less frequented tunnels. She presses her back up against the wall, the cool metal pressing into her shoulders. It grounds her a little, reminds her that she’s still alive somehow.

She waits a long moment, trying to clear her thoughts, savoring how pressing up against the wall slightly soothes her aching lumbar region.

She’s lost. So, so lost. She’s never been to this area of the ship before. Usually she cleans servant sleeping quarters, or the hallways in the hull: areas with predictable designs, created to maximize space and cram the greatest number of bodies and workspaces into the confines of the ship.

It’s clear now, though, that she’s very far out of her depth. The series of hallways she finds herself in doesn’t match the maze that she’s used to. This area of the ship is clearly designed for something else: comfort. Luxury. Flashiness.

None of it looks familiar at all.

She walks down more hallways, timid, trying to project as much feeble respect as she can in case she gets spotted. She presses her right hand up against the right walls, making every right turn she’s presented with. That should eventually get her somewhere, right?

_Right?_

It’s because of this frantic, desperate strategy that she finds herself actually relieved when she encounters another station of Stormtroopers. They stand guard against glass walls which look somehow familiar—maybe she passed them with her group—and she approaches as respectfully as she can.

“I’m afraid I’m lost, sirs,” she starts.

No answer.

The troopers look between each other. No doubt that she’s a strange sight.

“I was stationed with my group—we were cleaning—and I got pulled away for, _erm_ , a specific cleaning assignment. Pulled away by a superior, I mean,” she adds quickly. “I didn’t just leave! I tried to go back to join up with my group again after I finished, but I couldn’t locate them again. I think by now they’ve likely moved on to another area of the ship. Could you possibly help me, please?”

One trooper tilts his helmet.

“Yeah, we could help you, honey. We could both help you. Right over in that break room, in fifteen minutes, when we get off shift. We’ll help you real good.”

She swallows, hard, shuffles a little bit in her place.

“ _Erm._ I—no, thank you. I appreciate, uh…” she trails off. “Could you please tell me what time it is?”

It’s the other one who replies.

“11:43.”

Oh.

Much later than she’d thought.

She’d must have wasted precious time navigating the ship—or maybe the time spent with the Supreme Leader lasted longer than she thought—

She realizes, with a severe pang of regret, that she’s missed her daily feeding and one of only two refresher breaks.

“I— _oh, okay, thank you_ — _um_ —” she pauses, fraught with indecision about what she could possibly ask that might receive a real answer. “Do you know where I might be able to report to?”

“No idea,” the first trooper answers, sounding harsher this time, “but down those steps would be a good start. I’d get going before we report you for trespassing up here.”

 _That_ makes her blanch all the way white.

“Yes—yes, sir—of course—”

She hurries in the direction indicated, down a flight of stairs made from metal grating which tears at the underside of her dirty feet.

She emerges into a small atrium, simply relieved that she’s been able to get this far without a keycard.

Perhaps she’ll run into someone more approachable—an enlisted person, or maybe even a servant—who can direct her back to an overseer or taskmaster, back to her group. All she wants is to lay low, to do her work, to get the day done with.

She takes a right and walks down an arterial hallway lined with black pillars. There are sounds up ahead, she thinks; there’s faint clacking, fainter voices. She follows the noises, hesitant but nevertheless ready to accept her punishment and get it on with it, and soon finds herself tiptoeing closer to a broad sheet of glass windowing.

She peers in, obscuring most of her body behind the opaque paneling next to where the windows begin.

She discerns quickly that the room is some sort of feeding center; it’s set up similarly to the ones used to feed slaves, but this one is bigger, cushier. _Cafeterias_ , she thinks they call them.

Multiple stations with multiple different kinds of foods line the walls. The people within—enlisted officers, it seems—actually talk to one another. Some even smile.

There are real tables and chairs—comfortable-looking ones—and refreshers off to the side for use at any time. It baffles her a little to watch the officers within just excuse themselves from conversations to use the refresher whenever they want.

And there: she spots what will become the primary temptation of the room. There, towards the edge of the feeding room, closest to her, sits a small table. She’s not sure exactly what the sign says, but the intention is clear. A small coffer rests beneath the sign emblazoned with some words and then the symbol for a credit. To the right and left of the coffer sit an arrangement of baked goods: odds and ends of assorted breads, day-old buns and pastries.

Just the mere sight makes her stomach rumble.

Slaves are usually only fed a porridge-like gruel once a day— _it’s packed with all the nutrients you need!_ they say—and left to live life perpetually hungry for something more.

She’s certainly no stranger to hunger. It reflects in her body: in her lack of strength, her hair and her nails, the constant acidity that tinges her mouth from a stomach completely empty and angrily rumbling for more.

How bad would it be _—truly be? —_ if she snuck into the room, placed her newfound credit into the coffer, and took a piece of bread?

She wouldn’t be stealing, she figures. After all, she truly does have the required credit.

And, true, while slaves aren’t supposed to eat food they aren’t explicitly given, its clear that the table is for cast-asides, for goods from yesterday.

She wouldn’t really be hurting anybody if she took something to eat on her way back to her group, would she?

The intense rumble of her stomach seems to provide an answer. She swallows back the newest wave of stomach bile and acid and walks into the room, confidently as she can muster, over to the table.

She tries not to look out of place, tries not to glance around to see if anyone is watching her: that would only draw more attention than her appearance does on its own.

She digs into her pocket and grasps the credit, then drops it quickly into the collecting coffer.

Her eyes survey the goods on the table a little greedily. There’s a half-torn bagel; a very dry-looking croissant; small end pieces of stale bread.

It takes a few moments before she sees it, but when she does, she knows its for her. It’s a small raisin bun, less stale-looking than her other options, small enough that she might conceal it in her pocket. She takes it and, indeed, pockets it, making quickly for the entryway.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” She turns, nervously, open-mouthed, to meet the eyes of an officer. “I just watched you _steal_ , slave.”

“I—no, no, sir—I paid for it. I paid for it; I swear.”

“Paid for it with all that money they give you, did ya?”

“No—really—I had a credit, and—”

“You had a credit. Of course. And I have a luxury villa in Canto Blight, that’s why I work as a jailsman in the First Order. Please.”

The man moves forward, takes her by the arm.

“I know just the place to send you for punishment today. Consider yourself in luck. You’ll be getting a very special treat.”

“No— _please_ —truly, I paid for it—”

“And even if you did,” he cuts across her, “you have no business in the cantina of your betters. You were trespassing at a minimum. And where exactly is your post? Aren’t you worked nearly all hours of the day?”

“I—well, see, that’s the thing—”

“Right. That is _exactly_ the thing.”

“I—”

“Be quiet, slave-girl.”

She blanches white for the second time that day, falls completely silent. Her heart pounds out of her chest. She feels delirious.

He leads her back nearly the same way that she came: up the stairs, up past the two troopers stationed nearby, down an adjacent hallway.

He stops clear of a heavy metal door, which he unlocks manually with a set of keys tied to a clip on his waistband.

He rips the raisin bun out of her pocket just before shoving her into the room.

“I’m sure he’ll enjoy practicing his mysticism on you. Very painful, or so I’ve heard.” He cocks his head, considering. “Well, based on all the screams, that is.”

The door slams shut.

She manages only to make it to the other side of the room—a hexagonal cell, gray and dark and ominous—before she sinks down to her knees, the adrenaline rush shakes proving far too much for her joints and weak muscles to handle.

It’s exactly here that she curls up for the better part of an unknown amount of time.

The acid from her increasingly angry stomach burns her esophagus.

The hotness of her tears streak down the dry skin of her cheeks.

This is how she lies some number of hours later, slipping between light sleep and terrifying reality when the door opens again.

Heavy footsteps echo on the plate floors.

The metal door locks with a clang.

A tall, black figure stares down at her from within the shadow of the doorframe.

Kylo Ren.


	5. 5

She curls up in the small corner of the room that she can call her own. She presses her back up against the cool sheet metal of the room, brings her knees to her chest. She wraps weak arms around herself, little tears prickling at the edges of both waterlines.

“…You.”

It’s all he says.

The statement stands alone.

The eyeless void of his helmet looks between her and the door several times, back and forth, as though he might be seeing something.

One long moment later, he makes a soft clicking noise—annoyance, she thinks—somewhere behind the mask.

“And your crime is…” he walks over, hits buttons on a datapad she hardly noticed was embedded into the wall. Tabs zoom into view as he works a complex computer system she doesn’t understand. “Stealing.”

He smacks another button; the datapad restores itself to a black, lifeless screen.

The large, looming figure of the Supreme Leader turns to face her.

“Well?”

“I—”

She barely starts before she closes her mouth again. There’s no way she’ll be able to explain this.

She swallows hard, forces down stomach bile which has risen from the toxic combination of extreme fear and hunger.

“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t steal. I—I put the credit in a collection coffer in one of the feeding rooms nearby. There was, _uhm_ , this table—a table of stale items—and—well, I took one. In return for the credit. I paid. I did. _Truly_ —” she pauses, swallowing hard again, “I know it was wrong to step into the room at all, sir, but I…”

She swallows; she lets her voice trails off. There’s little she can say to save herself—nothing she can do to make him understand. She’s in an untenable position, only making matters worse with every word she speaks. The little tears rush back, morphing into larger cascades which run down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she bleats, raspy, “I could barely think—I— _I’m just so hungry_.” The dam barely holding back a derecho of tears nearly breaks. “I was just trying to find my work group again, and—and—” she hiccups “—I thought if I ate something—then maybe—”

“ _Enough._ ”

She finds she’s almost relieved when he cuts off her desperate sputtering.

She wipes at her face, no doubt muddied red by now, with the scratchy fabric of her work tunic. She raises her elbow to brush away snot from her running rose.

The looming figure takes several heavy steps forward, iron on concrete, out of the darkness of the doorway and into the harsh light of the jail-room.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” she heaves, softly, involuntarily, nearly a whisper as he steps closer. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean— _I was just—am—so hungry_ —” she hyperventilates, trying and repeatedly failing to catch her breath. Tears streak down her face and, somewhere deep inside, she’s shocked she even has the sodium stores to produce them. “—just _so, so hungry_ , I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“I said, _be quiet._ ”

His tone is harsher now, clipped. Where there might’ve been shreds of patience before, it seems there are none now.

He squats next to her, nearly over her body, large frame managing to balance only on the balls of his feet.

He raises a single gloved hand—his right one—to the side of her temple.

“This will hurt.”

She only has a second to prepare herself, to swallow and replace her tongue in the crevice in which it belongs. Then she feels it: a tearing, ripping sensation at the temple he’s raised his hand to, like a superhot paring knife slicing through the buttery innards of her brain, dissecting it, searching.

She screams; she sobs. He presses inward, deeper.

The agony lasts only a moment—or maybe it lasts a lifetime, she can hardly tell the difference through the noise of it—before the sensation rips out of her head just as brutally as it sliced in.

Kylo Ren places folded arms across his knees, still somehow managing to balance in a deep squat.

“You’re telling the truth.”

She nods her head, furious with the rush of relief—the dizziness of it—and clamors to reiterate any semblance of explanation she can manage to give.

“I— _yes, sir_ —I only wanted to rejoin my group—and get rid of the credit before anyone could find it on my person and—and I thought I could just buy something to eat, something no one would miss anyway, and—”

She trails off. His visor has tilted to one side.

“You’re not allowed to possess credits.”

It would sound like a question in any other context, but the man looming above her says it like a statement.

She blanches.

“I…yes, sir? That’s right, sir. I—I just wanted to give it back—I promise I was giving it back—” she sniffles lightly, rubbing at the sides of her arms. _Cold._ She’s so cold. “I didn’t mean any trouble.”

He makes a noise of indecipherable emotion as he rises to his full height. He sweeps across the threshold of the room, somehow seeming light despite footfalls which say otherwise. His long, black-quilt cape whips and billows around his ankles.

He punches another button on the datapad, holds it, leans in.

“Tell Mitaka to bring another in the queue to the holding pens. And be sure to let him know that his last catch was inadequate. Reschedule my activity block here to 1700 hours.”

She barely understands the words; she hardly minds, doesn’t linger on them for too long.

She simply shivers, all energy consumed with the effort to stay alive and reasonably able to walk. She cowers in the protective stance she’s assumed in the corner, grateful to merely find herself still alive.

Perhaps she shouldn’t be so grateful, so relieved; perhaps it would’ve been a more merciful end to find herself speared on the end of his lightsaber, to be put out of her misery.

Perhaps that would’ve been too kind a treatment by the First Order leader.

She rubs down the goosebumped, bony flesh of her arms. A shiver wracks her skeleton, the humiliation of it punctuated by the loud grumble of her stomach.

She finds, through it all, that she regrettably still manages to feel embarrassment.

“Get up,” he orders simply. He turns towards the door, which unlocks and swings aside with the simple flick of his hand. She stares after him, afraid to move from her position.

He looks back, only slightly, just enough to confirm what he must have already known.

“Get _up._ ”

With that, the Supreme Leader disappears around the corner.

That’s all the motivation she needs to spring to her feet despite ever-waning strength. She sways on her feet, unsteady, vision turning to grey for several long moments. She leans against the chilly sheet metal on the wall, trying desperately not to pass out. When her vision comes to, she panics at the thought that perhaps he will already be too far out of sight.

She runs out of the room, looks both ways frantically.

She spots his coattails at the end of the hallway, sighs audibly with the rapture of relief.

She runs in that direction, past a pair of Stormtroopers who seemingly exchange quizzical glances, up the same flight of stairs which previously cut her feet. The harsh, grated metal leaves deeper impressions in her soles this time, mixing dirt and grime into freshly created wounds.

She follows nevertheless, probably tracking small, bloodied footprints through the halls in her wake, and soon she finds herself back in the increasingly familiar, polished hallways near the High Command facilities. He turns—takes a right this time, away from the Bridge—and continues three-quarters of the way down a smaller corridor.

He makes a left, then, suddenly, not caring enough to wait for her. Blaster doors part for him as they always seem to; she breaks into a run and manages to squeeze between the closing entryway just in time.

A medium-sized room opens up in front of her. The room mirrors the rest on the ship in many ways—all black, metal accents, blinking lights from mysterious devices—but this time holds little else. A single chair sits against the far wall, right behind a curved, polished gunmetal desk (though the polish is chipped in some areas as if a wild, clawed animal had once launched an assault there.)

To her right sits a shelf which spans floor to ceiling, though little rests on it. There are writing utensils, a set which looks like it belongs together; there are several stacked datapads covered in light, dusty film; there’s a sawed-in-half holopad.

She diverts her gaze quickly. There’s no need to find out how that happened.

Finally, against the wall off to her left sits what she at first takes to be a sort of stand or end-table. She stares at it, though, finding its shape peculiar. It’s only after several seconds of assessing it that she realizes there’s a bowl in the center, just as one might find in a birdbath, except— _except_ —

This is no birdbath: this vessel is filled with ashes, with charred remains of god-knows-what.

Her eyes dart back to her feet, easily the safest place in the room to look.

“You,” the warped, pitched-down mechanical voice calls to someone through an intercom, “come find out where this idiot slave belongs. And make sure the catching squad hauls another specimen into the re-education rooms. Pull someone from the holding pens if you have to.”

There’s a light clicking noise; the soft static of the intercom connection goes silent.

She stands there, in the threshold, for several long moments, eyes trained firmly on her feet.

“Well? Aren’t you going to make yourself useful?”

She looks up, expression of worry carved into her face. She’s never really able to be sure of herself or her behavior—she’s seen the same action punished one day but rewarded the next—and especially can’t risk putting a foot wrong now.

“I—” she stammers. “Sir. Of course. What would you, uhm—”

“I’m not a servant overseer, slave. I have _important_ things to do. Figure it out,” he snaps.

“Yes. Yes. Of course.”

She wrings her hands in front of her tunic, scratching nervously at the skin of her hands while searching for something plausible— _allowable_ —to do here.

The floors are mostly clean; what scratches do exist can’t simply be buffed out. She would need an actual cleaning kit.

She glances around nervously, quickly, trying to find something—anything—

Her eyes land on the dusty shelves of the case next to her.

She turns, meekly, and walks over to it.

She doesn’t dare ask for a rag or equipment— _figure it out_ , he’d already said so himself—so she grasps at the hem of her tunic and drags the oversized, ill-fitting fabric into a fist.

She kneels—she reasons it’s the most acceptable stance for her to assume anyway—and drags the crumpled material across the lowest shelf of the cabinet.

It’s there, on her knees, first shelf done and dusted when she notices it: something glimmering just underneath the unit, in the tiny little gap created between its legs and the floor.

She slips a hand underneath, for once grateful that her wrists are so small. She pulls the item carefully across the floor, careful not to make any noise in case she’s accidentally displacing something that was meant to be under there.

When she grasps the item in her hand, she turns it over several times, confused. Two golden cubes roll around in her small palm. Figures are carved into each face, both cubes connected by golden chain-link.

She agonizes over whether she should tell him, whether she should attempt to return the item to the man who must surely be its rightful owner. It doesn’t look like an electronic device— _it couldn’t possibly be a strangely configured listening device, could it? —_ and, so, after the better part of a minute, she pushes up and onto her feet.

She walks slowly, hesitantly, over to hover near the desk where the Supreme Leader sits now. His shoulders are turned mostly away from her. He leans towards a projected hologram, elbows resting on his knees as his helmet stares listlessly ahead into its rotating bands of blue light.

“…Sir?” she speaks quietly, trying to project as much mild-mannered respect as she can muster, “This, _erm_ , thing… this was under the cabinet. Sort of tucked in a corner.” She holds the item out to him, cupping it in both palms to be sure she doesn’t drop it. “It looked out of place, like maybe someone had lost it here? … so, uhm, I reached under and got it.”

Ren has turned, faces her now, visor tilted upwards, but only silence passes between them.

She does her best to fill the uncomfortable void.

“…I can put it back if it was meant to be there… but it looked like it had been lost, so…”

Another long moment passes.

Her hands start to shake as they frequently and rapidly do when she hasn’t had her morning feeding (and often even when she has.)

His hand extends just as she begins to take a step back, to put the mysterious cubes back where she found them.

Fingers much larger than hers close around the cubes in her hands.

The leather of his glove feels surprisingly warm, smooth against her skin.

It’s the first non-violent human touch— _or, well, she thinks he’s human_ —that she’s felt in ages.

She swallows, backs away quickly before she gives him the opportunity to change his mind, to lash out and slap her for touching something that doesn’t belong to her.

She nods, frenetically, as if he’s said something she agrees with, and hurries back to her station at the cabinet.

A man dressed in a grey Junior Officer uniform enters some number of minutes later. He addresses Ren respectfully _— “Supreme Leader”_ and _“My Lord”_ and _“sir”—_ and barks at her for her slave identification number.

The man stumbles through a series of promises to his superior—assurances that he’ll return her to her proper place—before hurrying right back out of the room.

It appears she isn’t nearly the only one intimidated by the Supreme Leader.

When she finally finishes with the sections of cabinet that she can reach (she doesn’t dare ask for a ladder, nor does she try to stand on any of the furniture—that would yield a guaranteed beating), she scoops a few tiny scraps of discarded paper into her hand to deposit in the small trash receptacle nearby.

She means to discard them quickly, efficiently, means to get right back to work, but she can’t help but stare a little open-mouthed when she reaches the can.

There, in the rounded container, are bits and pieces of electronics, torn to shreds; a no-doubt expensive stylus which has lost its touch-point tip; and, most cruelly, several thrown-away items of food. There’s a pastry, trashed in its entirety, glossy red center carrying the flavor of some fruit she surely couldn’t name. There are bits of pieces of bread, many with bite marks in them, as if the person dining had reached the end of a tomato-cheese melt and decided the crusts weren’t quite good enough for him. There are—

“You want those.”

The voice— _his_ voice—startles her.

She jerks, hand releasing a cascade of paper shreds which all manage to fall, thankfully, into the can and not onto the floor.

“Sir? Sorry, sir.”

Once again, Kylo Ren hadn’t asked her a question: he’d made a statement.

She isn’t sure how to respond, what to do—

“You’re so starving that you would have my scraps from the garbage.”

 _That_ makes her go white.

She shivers in place, wonders whether decorum demands that she deny it. She mulls it all over in a panicked instant, a little-open mouthed, an entirely fresh wave of embarrassment burning up her body. She focuses hard on trying not to stammer out the flurry of frightened words pounding through her head.

Kylo Ren saves her the trouble.

He waves one hand, a bit jerkily, no doubt in disgust. “At least have the decency to eat them out of my sight.”

It’s all he says. She finds that, on an empty stomach, acid in the back of her mouth, it’s also all the permission she needs.

She nods, shakily, again tinged with the strong instinct to agree, and drags the can quickly out of the room and into the hallway.

When she looks left, then right, there’s no one else in sight.

Sure, there’s bits of broken glass strewn throughout the can, embedded in the foodstuffs, but that’s nothing she can’t pick out with her fingers.

Perhaps this isn’t such a terrible day after all.


End file.
